by Peter Watts
“Help them.”
Mac jerked upright. Had he dozed? Starlight lit the junk piles, along with a thin sliver of unclouded moon.
“Zeb?”
Nothing stirred, no sign of Zeb. The voice he’d heard had been distinctly female. Rusty, yes, but female.
“Hello?”
No answer, then, faint, the rustle of midnight wings and a beak parting. “Help them.”
Mac scrambled to his feet, spinning a circle. He looked through his left eye, then his right. Nothing. His flesh puckered.
He raised his metallic hand to his ear, cupping his palm to trap sound. A murmuring, like the rush of wind. “Go home.”
He jerked away from his hand. The metal arm remained bent, winking in the starlight.
“Li?” He breathed the name, heart pounding.
His fingers wanted to move, and he hadn’t asked them for motion. His first instinct was to fight. The metal ached cold, all through the false bones to the real beneath his flesh.
He brought the hand back to his ear, uncertain whether it was his idea. The back of his neck prickled. Again the whisper, the almost familiar buzz.
“Go home.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Help them. Help you.”
Mac pushed on the arm with his left hand, forcing it back to his side. The metal was cold. He listened, heart beating too hard. He breathed out. Following on the heels of his breath, a distinct and separate sound, a sigh.
“The ghosts that make the tech run . . . ” Mac licked his lips, letting the question hang. Weariness pressed out from inside his skull; his eyes, dust dry, ached from lack of sleep. Zeb scraped beans from a black pot balanced over the fire. He passed a tin plate to Mac, and Mac accepted it in his metal hand, spilling nothing. The delicate operation of spoon to mouth, he left to his flesh hand.
Zeb chewed, meeting Mac’s gaze with the eye not hidden behind green glass. Mac forced himself to ask the question.
“Are we haunted?” He tilted his head, indicating Zeb’s wrong-way leg.
“You been hearing things?” Zeb straightened, fingers tightening on his spoon.
Mac started, almost dumping his plate, nothing to do with his metal hand.
“Pay no mind.” Zeb leaned forward, the intensity of his gaze unsettling. “Get yourself in trouble thinking on things like that.”
“But the ghosts can’t want this, if we have to trap them, and . . . ”
“We’re living, they’re dead.” Zeb banged his plate down, raising dust. “Can’t trust a ghost. They want what they want. Our job is not to give it to ’em.”
“But . . . ”
“Listen, boy. There’s more than one way to be hungry. You start paying attention to those voices, you get better and better at hearing ’em. Pretty soon, you get muddled, forget which ideas are your own.” Zeb’s left hand made a fist. The way he clenched it made a livid, pink scar stand out against his dark skin. Mac had never noticed it before, but it ran all around the base of Zeb’s thumb, disappearing into his palm.
“Put it out of your head.” Zeb pushed himself up. His rolling walk carried him away, closing the conversation.
Mac kicked dust over the fire, appetite lost. Outside, he followed the curved junk wall until he could see the city. A haze still hung over it, evidence of where the palace had burned.
Go home.
Mac started. He glanced at the arm, laying still against his right side. He raised it cautiously, listening. Nothing.
He glanced back over his shoulder. A pounding sound from within the junkyard spoke of Zeb, hard at work. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to relax. Zeb had been kind to him, saved his life. Mac owed him. Zeb had been out here on his own a long time; he knew a thing or two about survival. Mac made his way back inside, intent on finding Zeb and seeing if he could be of any help.
They’d spent the day hauling, moving, shifting, sorting. Mac’s body ached. Between the work and the fact that he was still healing, he was weary to the bone, but he couldn’t sleep. Questions nagged. The ghost in his hand, if it really was Liana, she wouldn’t want to hurt him, would she? Help them. She could only mean Cal and Trin. He could still set things right.
But what if Zeb was right? What if the ghost in his hand was trying to trick him, do him harm? But perhaps that was no more than Mac deserved. He rested his forehead on the metal arm, propped against his knee, closing his eyes.
The fingers cooled his brow. They were Liana’s fingers. Her voice, a lullaby.
“Hush. Rest.”
Soothing. Mac let doubt go. It was easier to believe, to listen the wordless melody. His sister would take care of him. She would forgive him. Everything would be okay; they would be a family again.
Mac jerked awake, heart drumming wild. Shadows piled thick through the junkyard. Even though the night was cool, sweat stuck Mac’s shirt to his skin. He threw back the rough blanket and rose, though he didn’t remember crawling into bed.
“Help them.”
Mac glanced at his hand. A hint of plum-red light rippled over its surface before fading.
“Li?”
A sigh swirled around him. He strained after it.
“Go home. Go home. Help them.”
Mac closed his eyes. It only made things worse, calling Liana’s image sharply to mind. Her eyes, fixed on his, lips shaping their question, hands bound, then turning to look over her shoulder as she climbed the gallows’ steps just before the hood slipped over her head. His eyes snapped open.
Go home.
The refrain pounded in time with his pulse. A fresh wave of loss formed a lump in his throat. Mac moved quick, afraid if he allowed a moment’s thought, he’d lose his nerve.
He found an old carry sack not too damaged by mold. As quietly as he could, he eased open the door of Zeb’s cabinet. Metal limbs gleamed in the starlight. He took what he hoped Zeb wouldn’t miss—a kneecap, a thumb, a third finger, a left foot. More. The sack hung heavy down his back as he slipped it over his shoulder.
As he eased the cabinet door closed, something caught his eye—a photograph tucked into the door’s frame. The young man had Zeb’s eyes.
Mac’s heart kicked. He almost dropped the sack. But Zeb had lost family, too. Surely he would understand. Mac closed the door.
He patted his pockets. The only thing they contained was the crushed brass star. A poor trade, but maybe Zeb could use it again. With one last glance over his shoulder, Mac set out for the city.
The empty water skin banged Mac’s hip. His legs ached and the sack of metal body parts bruised the small of his back. At least the ghost arm carried its weight, no longer dragging Mac’s shoulder.
When he let his mind wander, it whispered to him, words snatched by a wind he couldn’t feel, sliding just beyond his hearing. Sometimes, the ghost sighed. Just once it babbled, a near shout—yeshomehelpthemhelpyou, and its fingers drummed Mac’s thigh which such ferocity he nearly dropped the pack and ran. When the ghost shouted, it didn’t sound like Liana at all.
But when it sighed . . .
Mac ignored the salt-sting of sweat in his eyes and his growing thirst. He was closer to the city than the junkyard. More sense in going forward than back.
A breeze carried smoke from the city. Mac crested a rise in the sand, and all at once the city was there, spread below him. The wall had been breached, a section shattered and spilling out onto the desert floor. Mac closed his left eye. All around the base of the wall, hungry ghosts swarmed. He hefted his pack and half slid, half ran down the hill.
Merciful shade greeted him as he clambered over a broken section of wall. A beggar huddled next to the rubble, casting Mac a suspicious look from one rheumy eye. Mac tightened his grip on his pack, glad he no longer wore the ruins of his uniform.
People moved quickly, shoulders hunched and clothing pulled close against their bodies. By contrast, others strode, wearing weapons openly—brash knives at their waists, rifles slung across their backs. Were these Cal,
Trin, and Liana’s compatriots? The ones they’d given their lives for rather than naming? Or had some other faction risen up, taken advantage of the chaos to seize power?
Mac ducked his head, hurrying toward the palace. In the courtyard, he paused. It was almost empty, the clock tower’s hands stilled. The fountain still ran, and he knelt, scooping water with his left hand, not caring that it tasted faintly of moss. No crows roosted on the gibbet arm, but Mac felt the weight of their stares anyway.
Why.
The smoke he’d seen from a distance centered over the palace. Mac tugged his shirt over his nose and mouth. He circled, watching for those watching him. There were none. He was only another shadow, another ghost left in the wake of the revolution.
He ignored the obvious entrances to the palace. Mac stopped when he found a spot where the bars were wrenched away from one of the windows rising halfway above the stones. He lay on his belly, peering into the dark, then pushed the carry sack ahead of him and wormed in after. His stomach dropped for the instant he had to trust the ghost hand to hold his weight, but the fingers didn’t betray him. He eased to the cell floor.
Iron loops embedded in the walls were still threaded with broken chains. A pile of straw filled one corner, and a bucket occupied another. Mac forced himself to look. Forced himself to breathe, drawing in the old scents of shit and blood. He didn’t need to close his left eye to conjure Liana’s ghost in those chains, dark eyes holding hurt, fear, confusion. He didn’t need to close it to see Trin spit at him, or Cal look away.
A single ghost clung to the wall above the pile of straw, stripped of identity. Mac reached out his good hand. The ghost didn’t stir. He let it fall.
“Help them.”
He should have died here with Trin and Cal and Liana. He should have died on the palace steps, sheltering the prince’s body.
The carry sack weighed on Mac’s shoulder. He shrugged the straps higher.
The palace may have been looted, but the prison hadn’t been touched. Confiscated prisoner goods still filled the drawers in the guard room, and the guard’s shelves still groaned with food.
Mac helped himself to garlic, aged cooking wine, and flaked chili peppers. He hoped it would be enough. In the common room, his metal fingers forced the safe and they did not protest. They ripped out drawers; trinkets clattered to the floor.
“Help them.” Mac’s left eye blurred. He swiped at it with his good hand.
“Are you really Liana?” He knew it was futile to ask.
He chose a leather bracelet and a hairpin from the scattered mess on the floor. If he tried, he could imagine Cal and Trin wearing these things. Yes, these were their possessions. Must be. Taken from them before they were tortured and hanged. He would use the items to call their ghosts, to carry them out of the dark.
Mac took everything he’d gathered to the prince’s torture chamber and dumped them on the floor along with the contents of the pack stolen from Zeb. Blades there were aplenty, and means to light a fire.
Mac cleaned the knife in the flame and transferred it to his right hand. The metal fingers closed, steady and sure. He had no doubt the hand knew what to do. Rolling up the left leg of his trousers, Mac braced himself on a surface already darkened with old blood. He closed both eyes, and let the metal arm do its work.
If he screamed, the excited babble of his arm drowned it out. The flat of the blade cauterized the wound. Mac forced himself to open his eyes. With his flesh hand, Mac jammed the kneecap stolen from Zeb against the burnt-closed wound. Prongs bit deep, and this time he did scream. A faint click and the kneecap locked in place. Red-dark thumped behind his eyes. Mac leaned over, vomited a thin stream of bile. His stomach cramped.
He pushed himself away from the table. His left leg seized, the knee unbending and dead. He crashed to the ground, fresh pain spiking, and a sob tore from his throat. Ghost hand and flesh hand clawed the floor. Mac dragged himself to the scattered trinkets. He used the knife to scratch a circle on the floor, laid the hairpin in it, and sprinkled dried chili flakes over top.
The plum-crush glow came. Mac forced his knee into the circle. Pain arced through him. His body jerked, head slamming the stones and lips foaming. He let the ghost ride him. Welcomed the agony. Bit down on his lip until he tasted blood, and whispered Trin’s name.
Stores stolen from the guard’s kitchen sustained him through recovery. Dreams came and went, fever hot. Through his good eye, he saw Trin’s ghost, mocking him. She peeled her lips back, snarling. When he reached for her, she crouched, releasing a stream of hot piss. He woke up, struggling to back away from the yellow threading its way to him across the floor. Liana came and smoothed his hair, sang to him. It hurt, yes, but he was doing the right thing.
His thumb and middle finger went easier, and just as hard. Mac screamed. He bled. He wept, still a coward, no matter what he did to atone. Crows flapped rusty wings, chorusing why, over and over again. Two ghost voices babbled in his ear, overlapping.
“Help them.”
“I am.” Mac’s voice scraped raw, tasting like iron and salt.
“More,” the voice said.
Mac poured cooking wine and garlic, and plunged finger and thumb into the essence of two more ghosts. Maybe one was Cal.
His body sang. It fizzed. His skin rebelled, and he doubled over, sick. His left thumb and middle finger pinched his cheeks, tugged at his lip, pulled his hair. He slapped them away with his right hand, and gave himself a black eye.
A ragged sound filled the room. Only the ache in his throat told Mac the laughter was his, and not the ghosts’. Tears leaked from his swelling eye.
“More,” a voice exhorted.
His foot, and a key that could have belonged to the prince. These were her dungeons, after all.
Cloves and black pepper. Fresh ginger. Sharp cheese.
Days blurred. Mac’s left eye crusted shut. Ghosts swarmed around him, voices buzzing in his jaw. Numb. He couldn’t tell which parts of his body were his anymore. He shook, fever and chills warring. He curled into a ball of misery, exhausted, and slept. Liana held his hand.
He had no idea how much time passed. Starved thin, chest heaving, body whining with unaccustomed joints and babbling with the voices of ghosts, Mac crawled from the prison.
He wanted to rest. To sleep. But there were other cities, other horizons. Other ghosts. Clanking, rattling, bruised and crusted in blood he staggered to the wall, the clatter of wings following him.
He stepped over the ruins and onto the desert sand. Dust streaked him. He walked, half metal, half haunted. Behind him, a rusted beak parted for a single caw.
“Why?”
Mac didn’t turn; he answered with rust of his own, a single word.
“More.”
Honeycomb Girls
Erin Cashier
Those were the days Geo couldn’t walk through the market without stepping on someone else’s shoe. If money wasn’t tied to waist it was zipped, and anything dropped—paper, panks, crumbs—zipped too. Geo sold junk there: stripped wires, sharp green-squares, transistors like pills. “Someone junk, someone treasure!” Geo call. Men come over to see what Geo had, comb over findings, and Geo with stick, ready to slap at zippers. Stand all day, stand half night, then walk home to hard mat shared on second floor. Kick junk man out, eat food, sleep, till day begin again.
Geo hunt for junk at old places when junk run low. Sometimes old posters hidden from rain. Posters show things that not there. Happy men, metal cages. Men touching screens. Men smiling. Like said, old posters. No smiles now.
And sometimes, girls. Some cut out, but see where shape was left. Cut here, tear there. Reach out and feel where maybe curve had been. Hold nothing in hand. Imagine, if no one watching. Geo knew girls. There, but not there, like the sun. Never touch the sun, and never touch the girls, neither.
Jon yell, “Junk, junk!” Geo with stick, watching men come by. Man comes to table. Leans over. Clothing new. Business man? Tinker man? Jon’s boy watche
s man’s back. Makes sure no one else steal his money before Geo can.
Geo sees glint in man’s eye. He like something he see. Geo step forward. Geo like what Geo see. “You like?”
Man’s head bows. “No, no, nothing.”
Geo knows glint. Geo knows lie.
Man scans table, sniffs. “There’s nothing here. None of this is worth anything to me.”
Geo grunts.
“I’m an artist. I can maybe use this.” Man picks up three metal bits.
Geo grunts again, waits. Watches man’s hand reach for first thing he like. Glint-thing.
“And maybe this too. How much?”
Geo point to first pile. “Four panks.” Geo look at man clothing, hair, naked chin. Points to hand. “That, too expensive for you. Put down.”
“But—”
Geo hold up zip-stick. “Too pricey! Put down!”
Man’s eyes narrow. Geo offend him. He think he can afford all junk here, all table, all tent. But he do what Geo say, sets glint-thing down. Geo pick it up: round, metal, cold. Geo ask for most expensive thing Geo can think of. “Worth one night.”
Man’s eyes widen. Anger blaze. But he cannot steal from Geo here. Whole tent junk men watching. Under table, Jon step on Geo’s shoe.
Man lean over table, snatch ball from hand. “Done.”
Geo blinks.
“Go to the third tower two days from now. I’ll let them know you’re coming.” Holds up metal thing from pocket. Light flashes. Geo is blind.
When sight come back, man gone. Geo works, goes back home, lays on mat. Feels junk man’s fear. Should Geo have bargained harder?
Honeycomb Tower Three in middle of city. Girls inside. Men too. Depend on hive how many. Some hive ten to girl. Others, four, five. More money, less men.
Geo never known hive man before. Or girl. Satisfy self with other men, hand. Now Geo hand makes empty fist. Geo wonder if strange man lie.
